


Tracksuits & Soundtracks

by AcidArrow



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Wade Wilson, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Deadpool being Deadpool, Deadpool vs Hawkeye (Comics), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Fraction's Hawkeye, Hawkpool - Freeform, M/M, Protective Wade, Scarred Wade, Top Clint Barton, Trust Issues, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, What the hell is a Wankpuffin?, tracksuit draculas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidArrow/pseuds/AcidArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just the start of a little something glorious in which Deadpool spends some time reminding Hawkeye of the joys of not being signed to some stupid boy band, and in which, in return, Clint reminds Wade that some people <i>do</i> care about what's <i>beneath</i> the mask.</p><p>(Set during <i>Hawkeye: Little Hits</i>, shortly after Clint fights his way through a strip club so that Cherry can steal something from her ex-husband, who also happens to be the head of the group of mafia thugs the Hawkeyes have dubbed the 'Tracksuit Draculas', and is totally in the dog house with Cap, Tony, and the rest of the Avengers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tracksuits & Soundtracks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leftennant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftennant/gifts).



> _Hey, readers! Your friendly neighbourhood Deadpool here!_  
>     
>  _Now I know, you're all excited for my movie which just came out, and believe me, so am I. But we're gonna take a step back from the billions upon billions of greenback that this spandex-wrapped ass and package (Jareth ain't got shit on me) has earned the finely-tooled dicknuggets down at Fox, and focus on the comic books instead._
> 
> _First things first -- I don't actually live here. Acid's just borrowing a kind of version of me from a friend. Like a hologram, but maybe I'll stay. Long story short, Acid's got this friend, she's a badass pen-wielding fluff ninja on here, yadda yadda, and she swore up and down, black and blue, right versus left, that she wasn't a fan of slash. So of course, Barton and I got together, and did one of those whole cheesy "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!" selfies, and decided to roll with it. See if we could get past getting distracted just bashing our dicks together in those glow-in-the-dark condoms because they looked like fucking light sabers, and actually get down to some sweet, gentle man-lovin' that can show her just how much fun this whole Internet slash phenomenon can be._
> 
> _Long story short, this will probably turn into a series, because Acid realized he actually really digs this ship. Like a fucking palaeontologist on cocaine. He had WAYYYY too much fun breaking the fourth wall... in fact, I think I might be rubbing off a little on Barton (hehehehehehehehehe) 'cause even HE got some good shots in. Anyway, hope you really DIG this fic -- and if you don't, go back to whatever baby-soft pair of characters floats the biggest ship you could give._
> 
> _Later, nerds~_

“See? This is _exactly_ what you needed.”

Hawkeye lifted the shot glass in his bow hand, studying the clouded liquid that swirled enthusiastically around inside of it, before lifting both bloodshot eyes to the stylized, leather, red-and-black mask that had grown more and more familiar over the years the two men had spent occasionally... well, he guessed you could call it _hanging out_. Even if, more often than not, the evening ended with bloodshed and severed limbs and bullet holes and not always _all_ in relation to the body of Wade Wilson.

Though, Clint thought drunkenly as he continued to swirl the shot, there was _something_ fun about playing chicken with a bendy straw through a slowly-healing puncture wound, if they were lucky enough to get one that went all the way through.

Futzing hell... what was _wrong_ with him!? He’d been spending too much time with Deadpool, clearly.

“... Absinthe?” he finally guessed, quizzically raising one eyebrow.

“What? Dude, no, not just the fucking _booze._ ” Wade gestured one gloved hand to the room behind him, which was packed solid with all sorts of unsavoury characters, the type that -- as an Avenger -- Clint would normally be here to _arrest_ or _fight_ rather than drink with.

But, he thought with a bitter snort, those days were probably not far from over. That ship was not far from having sailed. That... erm, arrow... was not far from... something-something-awesomely-clever-metaphor-to-do-with-archery. Why was _that_ the one he struggled with!?

“ _All_ of this shit! Illegal underhanded gambling, bottom-of-the-barrel booze, and half-naked chicks that look like Blake Lively on the red carpet but can kick your balls back up inside of you and turn you back into some kinda wheezing, sobbing _manchild_.”

“Yeah, I gotta admit, this is a little more than I expected from ‘Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls’...” Clint slurped the top of the shot, which earned him a smack on the back of the head to which he didn’t respond. “To be honest, was kinda worried you were like, some kinda pedophile or somethin’. Word of wisdom? Probably not a good idea to bring other guys here all, ‘hey man, I know a place with booze and hot girls’, y’know? Sets off alarm bells.”

“Well, what can I say?” Wade asked, taking advantage of how the other man’s lesser tolerance to alcohol slowed him down enough that he could snap a ninja-hand in and pinch one cheek. “I like my guys all riled up, it’s cute as balls.”

Wade’s mask was rolled up over his chin just far enough that he could drink; the small expanse of skin that was showing was almost _molten_ -looking, as if it had once melted and then re-formed slightly askew from his features. Not that it bothered Clint at all, even in the slightest. When you grew up in a circus... well, let’s just say he’d seen much weirder shit than Deadpool’s face before his balls had even fully dropped. After a few hours, he honestly didn’t even notice anything different about the loud-mouthed mercenary. At least not _physically,_ anyway. Mentally, well... that was another conversation, a really long one, for another day.

“But doesn’t it feel good, though?” Wade lifted one of own shot glasses of Absinthe, the toast (because Wade seemed to want to toast something with _every_ round tonight) signalling Clint’s fourth shot, and his eighth, because he was double-fisting to try and make a dent in his sobriety. Not that either of them cared; they were here for one reason, and one reason only, at least as far as Clint knew, and that was to get absolutely _hammered._ Or at least, Wade had added, get _Hawkeye_ absolutely hammered, because he was the one who so desperately needed it. “I mean, here we are -- badass motherfuckers in the _prime_ of our lives, no cares, no responsibilities, other than to get _fucked up_ and have a time so fucking _balls to the wall_ that we don’t even fucking _remember_ it tomorrow.”

“That actually sounds pretty good right now,” the archer chuckled grimly, lifting his own shot glass to tap it against Wade’s own. “To not remembering _shit_ tomorrow.”

“Amen, birdbrain.” The back of Wade’s skull his his shoulder blades, and the two shots were history in seconds. Clint quickly drank his own back, the odd blend of sugar and water in the tumbler rushing with the drop-shot of Absinthe to the far end of his throat. He coughed a few times as the aniseed burned at his esophagus, which was already raw from the amount of weed they’d rolled and smoked at Wade’s before coming out here... _man_ , Kate had been pissed. Given him some crap about... about how he always _ran away_ from his problems, or some shit. He didn’t _always_ run away...

“Thinkin’ about the wife, Barton?”

 _Wife?_ Did he mean Nat or Kate? Or, oh God, did he mean Bobbi? And was it _totally fucked up_ that he had to _think about_ which woman his friend meant when he referred to his ‘wife’?

“Kate? No, I was thinkin’ about... uh, this... this archery... thing.”

Wade snapped his head up, having been dozing lightly on the sticky countertop of the bar whilst Clint considered his response. “Uhn, sorry, man... kinda just nodded off there waiting for your reply. Heh, and what did we learn here? That staying up until seven-thirty in the morning while watching _Friends_ and smoking copious amounts of ganja is apparently _not_ great for our productivity as wannabe fandom writers!”

He cleared his throat and readjusted the mask a little. “And no, not the _better_ fucking Hawkeye. I’m talkin’ about the boy band you were guilt-fucked at shotgun-point into marrying.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “We’re not really a boy band per se...”

“Hey man, don’t fuck with me. That redheaded partner of yours has bigger balls than both of our balls put together, even _with_ every ounce of mass my crazy giant-ass sexy mutant balls would bring to the table. That woman is fucking _terr-i-fying_. But regardless, seriously, man. Leave the fucking band and pursue your own goddamn solo career.”

Clint’s usual levels of amusement at one of Wade’s beautiful little word journeys seemed somewhat muffled by his own depression. “All right, calm down, Yoko… so what, you think I should, like... rebrand myself or something? Go it alone? Maybe with Kate?”

“Well, if you’re gonna rebrand, stay with that whole purple dealio. And that pointy chevron thing you’ve got goin’ on.” Wade motioned for another round of drinks without even _looking_ over at the bartender. “Other than that, I think the general overall design of your costume has changed enough over the years that you could probably rebrand and people wouldn’t be too pissed up about it. I mean, it's fucking not like you're Superman, or anything.”

“The fuck’s Superman?”

Wade sighed with a shake of his head. “Eh, never mind.”

“Okay, good, ‘cuz that is like, legit the _lamest_ and most unoriginal superhero name ever.” Clint wrapped his hands around one of the three glasses that was brought to them, which appeared to be some sort of dark liquor. He wasn’t in any mood to really ask questions, he was in the mood to be numb, and so he took a sip without saying anything. _Yup... whiskey_.

“But seriously though, man... you think I should quit? I mean, they’re already pissed at me.”

“Dude, what the -- fucking _no shit,_ you should quit,” spluttered Wade, perhaps a little more enthusiastically than Clint was expecting. That, or his usual hit-or-miss plan to pour mass amounts of strong alcohol into his system in a short time frame in an attempt to feel some kind of a buzz was actually _working_ for once. “Dude, you’re fucking _Hawkeye!_ Most of the writers have a soft spot for you anyway, and man, Matt Fraction _killed it_ in your name! Fuck, this isn’t like in the movies, people actually _know_ who you are now, and Kate’s gonna keep your tightly-wrapped leather ass in line and make sure you don’t disappear too far off into that closet of sad-ass pitiful circus kid memories and terrible life decisions. So why the hell not? What did Captain Spandex and the Radioactive Scooby Gang ever do for you anyway?”

As per usual, Clint only really understood about three fifths of what his good friend Wade was saying to him, but the three fifths he _did_ understand he definitely took to heart. Maybe Wade was right. Maybe some guys... didn’t really _belong_ on superhero teams. Maybe some guys were better off going at it alone.

Swirling his drink in his bandaged hand, the archer nodded. “I think you might be right, y’know... I’ll... I’ll think about it. Maybe call ‘em tomorrow... give ‘em my resignation.”

Wade slapped him on the back, with a little more care and restraint than he normally would’ve used. “Atta boy, birdbrain. Now, c’mon. Drink your fucking medicine. Tomorrow, I’m gonna introduce you to some’a the boys here and we’re gonna get you and Katie-Kate lined up with your first gold card and your first job. Aww, li’l baby bird’s first job!” He moved in to pinch Clint’s cheek again, but the archer had wised up to his tricks and easily swatted the gloved hand away from his face before doing what he was told and taking a larger mouthful of the whiskey in the glass.

“And you know what else, buddy? Because I’m your best fucking friend ever, I am gonna _personally_ make sure that this divorce is as quick and painless as possible. So tonight, right now, we are gonna go to this little strip bar I know down the way... and we are gonna get you absolutely fucking _shitfaced_ , and actually, probably laid too -- providing you’re consenting of course, ‘cuz I’m kinda gonna need to know that before we force anymore alcohol down your throat, otherwise it’s just dubious consent and that’s not exactly something that’s super fly with me? So, yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m consenting. Hey, like you said, I’m divorced, right?” He chuckled humorlessly, thinking about Bobbi... what a fucking mess _that_ was. Really, while his body after the years was mostly scar tissue built on top of scar tissue, his life was very much the same. One mess built on top of another. Not exactly a great foundation, and one day...

He shot back the rest of his whiskey, swallowed, groaned, and put his forehead down on the counter top.

“Man... I’m... I can’t believe I’m even thinkin’ about doing this...” He rolled his head to the side, flushed cheek sticking to the surface and hearing aid pressing uncomfortably into his skull, and gave Wade a pathetic look through his bleary, drunken vision, the world swimming vividly around him.

“Dude... are you _sure_ I’m doing the right thing...?”

Wade sighed with honest exasperation, rubbing at one eye through the thin leather of his mask as he slid off of the barstool and yanked his mask back down over his chin. “You know what, buddy, you can probably do whatever the frickety frack you want in this situation. I’m willing to bet no one’s actually reading this shit anyway because it doesn’t have Steve and Bucky tickling each other’s buttholes all the way through it. Now come on, I’ve got a wad of ones in my pocket, and they aren’t gonna stuff _themselves_ between strippers’ butt cheeks.”

As the two men left Sister Margaret’s, Wade encouraged Clint to walk first, which meant that he didn’t realize the blond man had stopped dead upon stepping out onto the street until he had actually physically walked into the back of him. Lifting his head to look around him, the merc was halted temporarily by Hawkeye’s outstretched arm, blocking his path. Beyond the head of scruffy blond hair and the unwashed once-white tee-shirt, Deadpool would see a group of eighteen (Clint knew he could easily count ‘em all in the blink of an eye, whereas it had taken him a few moments) huge, bulky men all wearing what appeared to be a version of the same identical bronze-with-gold-striping tracksuits in the same god-awful ripstop nylon that reflected every goddamn streetlamp within a block’s radius of the entrance to the bar. Several of them had wooden bats slung across their shoulders (one of which was bloodstained with what looked like years’ worth of hard work), whereas while others appeared unarmed, both experienced fighters could spot the tell-tale bulges of firearms beneath the -- quite frankly, _offensive_ fabric they were swaddled with.

“Um. Que es fuck?”

“People who don’t like me.” Clint swallowed thickly as two of the guys nearer the back (including the one with the _only_ facial hair of all of them that he would _ever_ consider to not be a crime against humanity whilst being worn in public) readied a pair of AK47s in their general direction. “That is... people who really, really, _really_ don’t fucking like me.”

“Aw, shit,” Wade whispered in his ear, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “How bad does _this_ look, huh?”

“BRO!” One of the larger of the men stepped forward, talking through a thick greying moustache that covered the majority of his mouth. He pulled a handgun from the inside of his open tracksuit jacket and pointed it squarely at Clint. “Bro, you wreck our _club_ , bro! You _steal_ from us, bro! We _finish_ with your shit, bro!” He cocked the gun. “ _FINISH! BRO!_ ”

“Holy shitfucking _DICKNIPPLES!_ ” screamed Wade, just... _staring_... at the Tracksuit Dracula who had spoken, mouth agape behind his mask, and _not_ because the two friends had just had semi-automatics turned on them. He did a couple of double takes between his friend and the men who apparently wanted to _kill_ his friend, hands pressed against his cheeks somewhere between amazed, shocked, and horrified.

“Why... why the fuck is he _talking_ like that!? That is _so unbelievably fucking RACIST,_ man! In _this_ day and age, _really!?_ How the _hell_ are we even getting away with this!?”

“I don’t -- what?” Clint had clearly stood up and gone outside too quickly, and the cold downtown street was spinning and whirling and fading in and out all around him. But at the same time, _something_ very deep within his subconsciousness was desperately fighting to sober him up, fully aware of the amount of danger he was in at current.

“Look, _bros?_ I seriously just mentally divorced myself from my conscience and I’ve consumed a _ton_ of liquor tonight. Now’s not the time to go all... all bro-in’ out on me.”

Sensing that the archer was less than at his best, Deadpool put one hand on Clint’s shoulder to ensure he remained steady and upright, the other reaching back for one for his katanas, sliding it playfully in and out of its sheath in a quick rhythm. “Okay, easy there, tiger. Look, I know you’re cute when you’re mad, but as your friend, I gotta make sure your aim’s as good when you’re blasted as it is when you’re sober before I let you go on out there and have fun, ‘kay?”

“Bro, _SERIOUSLY_ , bro!” the Tracksuit screamed at them in his thick, heavy baritone, taking a single step forward and motioning with the gun. “Mask-bro! You no touch swords, bro! You no involve, bro, you no _involve!_ You leave _NOW_ , bro!”

“Well of course, they’re fucking _Russian_ ,” said Wade, rolling his eyes beneath his mask. He peeked over Clint’s shoulder get a glimpse of the man’s face; despite the fact that Hawkeye _looked_ like he was fighting the urge to hurl, he looked fairly calm and resolved, if not mildly annoyed.

“You good, bro? _Fuck_ , ugh, now it’s _catching._ ”

“Yeah... yeah, I’m good, bro,” replied the archer, without looking back at him. It was true, he’d fought more people much drunker than this before in his life. Istanbul had been... yeah, well. Wow. Back then, he’d had his bow with him. Tonight, he hadn’t even thought to _carry_ it, which was a testament to how fucked up and distracted he was at this point in time. But, as always, there was a knife in his back pocket, and while bringing a knife to a gunfight wasn’t exactly the _smartest_ thing a person could do...

“I’d be about sixty per cent better if I had some goddamn futzing _cover_...” he mumbled, drunken bleary eyes searching for something to scramble behind quickly once they opened fire. Unlike certain Mutants, he wasn’t able to self-heal gunshot wounds.

“Say no more,” Wade piped up, and simultaneously with the very first shots that were fired, he wrapped one arm around Clint’s body and threw the two of them sideways, into the alleyway directly beside the entrance to Sister Margaret’s. Wade’s superhumanly dextrous body twisted beneath the ordinary man’s, ensuring that the two of them hit the ground with him firmly underneath, cushioning Hawkeye’s fall as they rolled behind the trio of metal trash cans he knew would be there and kicked one over, causing a domino-effect that sheltered the two supine men with several layers of fallen steel.

“Hey, check this out!” hissed Wade, even as the walls and floor of the alleyway and the overturned garbage cans themselves were peppered with the spray of gunfire. He was gripping one of the round trash can lids in his off-hand like a shield, and he puffed his chest out proudly and lifted his fingers to his temple in a proud salute as he whistled the first few bars of _The Star-Spangled Banner_.

“... yer a fuckin’ idiot.”

Wade dropped his hand from the salute in order to point a stern finger angrily down at Clint. “ _LANGUAGE!_ ”

“Buuuuuuut you’re also my _favorite_ fucking idiot,” slurred Clint with an undertone of humour to his words, as he rolled ungracefully onto his knees and reached up to liberate one of Deadpool’s Desert Eagles from its side holster. He didn’t have his bow, and he was _far_ too wasted to attempt close combat right now. At least, not until it was a last resort.

“I’m also a _happy_ fucking idiot,” Wade corrected him, dropping the mock-shield and drawing both katanas from their sheaths criss-crossed over his back, all whilst keeping his head low and his body positioned between their cover and Barton, who was currently peeling himself off the asphalt.

“ _BRO!_ Bro, you no hide, bro! You come out fight, bro!”

“And by the way, if I throw up on your suit, it’s your own futzing karma.”

“Well, guess who’s not gonna be fighting beside _you_ for much longer here, then?” asked Wade, cocking his head at the possibly _former_ Avenger before taking a breath and rocking back and forth ever so slightly on his heels, readying himself for a break in the gunfire to enter the fray melee-style. Clint had just finished positioning himself with the handgun and his fingers were digging into Wade’s belt, fumbling drunkenly between tight leather and his utility belt for ammo. And Wade wasn’t exactly about to _complain_ about it, either.

Just before he took off, Clint stretched his right hand out and smacked his friend on the ass. “Maximum effort as always, eh, buddy.”

“You got it, guy,” replied Wade. “Don’t get your ass fucking shot.” And with that, he vaulted over the fallen garbage cans and hit the asphalt in a tucked roll, any of the grazing that burned into his skin as his body scraped against the ground evaporating beneath the suit almost as quickly as it appeared. _He_ may have been able to regenerate, but Hawkeye _couldn’t_... which meant that his job here was to keep any of the ones with firearms a decent enough distance from the other man.

He rolled into a run, ducking low and ignoring two well-aimed bullets that dug thick grooves along his left bicep as he charged the closest two mercenaries, taking both of them out simultaneously with his twin blades. As he worked, behind the makeshift cover he had created, Clint was lining up his shots with quick accuracy, picking off Tracksuits with about the same speed as with which Wade was taking them down -- which was about half as fast as he normally could’ve worked, but the Absinthe was definitely slowing him down. Several bullets whizzed by dangerously close to his ears, and over the deafening noise of gunshots he could hear back-and-forth yelling from both his comrade and their assailants.

“We need a soundtrack, Barton!” the merc called over to him as he separated one man’s head from the rest of his body, wishing he had one of those trajectory-marking devices to measure the blood splatter as it arced through the air, because it was a truly beautiful sight. “Ideas?”

“Uhhhhhhhhm.” Clint squinted one eye shut, sending a bullet clean through Wade’s parted thighs into the Tracksuit who had just lifted a handgun to shoot at him. “ _Killer Queen_?”

“ _MASK-BRO!_ ”

One man swung a baseball bat at Deadpool, who arched his stomach back out of the way and used his own momentum to kill two birds with one stone, impaling the bastard on one sword as he dodged his flailing attack.

“Really, _Queen_? I saw you as more of a _Green Day_ sort’a guy.”

“ _GET BACK, BRO!_ ”

“Y’mean ya think I’m fifteen, or somethin’?” scoffed Clint, his attention suddenly yanked to his left as something very solid and very wooden came flying at him out of nowhere. One of them had worked his way along the alley wall to where he was crouched behind the trash cans, and in his inebriated state, he wasn’t watching his own flank well enough.

He dropped down low, avoiding the baseball bat, and kicked the garbage can next to him out as hard as he could, knocking the Tracksuit’s legs out from underneath him and dropping him so effectively it may as well have been something out of a Jackie Chan movie.

“ _YOU FINISH, BRO! YOU FINISH!_ ”

A katana flew out of nowhere, impaling another thug who had taken the opportunity to run at Clint from behind. The alcohol was really… _really_ affecting him, tonight. He was silently glad that Wade had been with him when he’d left the bar.

“ _BRO!_ ”

“ _SERIOUSLY!?_ ”

“ _BRO, SERIOUSLY, BRO!”_

“But _SERIOUSLY_ , though!” yelled the merc himself from the mouth of the alley, as the business-end of his remaining katana slid all the way up the side of his next target’s leg, tracing along the double lines of his annoying tracksuit pants in a way that helped ease Wade’s inner suffering and rage over their tragic fashion choices, “I still don’t understand _how the fuck_ we’re getting away with villains that talk like that... is... is it because they’re Russian!? So like, nobody _cares?_ ”

“Russian... they’re... they’re the mafia, Wade,” he managed to get out, giving up on reloading the handgun with messy, drunk hands as blurred figures got a little too close to him for comfort, and he was forced to rely on hand-to-hand combat techniques. The first crack of the bat against the back of his skull threw him violently forward onto his knees like an oversized ragdoll, and he managed to get his arm up behind him in order to block the second, which whipped against his forearm instead, bruising -- and quite possibly cracking -- the bone inside. Without looking, he lunged his foot back, slamming his sneaker into the groin of one of his attackers, snapping out the knife in his back pocket and throwing it with precision he didn’t even know he _had_ when he was this drunk right between the eyes of the second.

The ‘field of battle’, if one could call it that, was calming down. Clint realized he could no longer hear the sound of gunfire, which would no doubt be attracting police presence here very soon. And he really, _really_ couldn’t be caught in the middle of another...

_‘Cept you’re gonna quit, right? So... so... fuck it._

Groaning, Clint fought against his nausea and dizziness to get both knees and then both sneakers underneath him, balancing his weight carefully between the two. A pair of gloved hands were on his shoulders by the time he got to trying to stand, and Wade’s familiarly muffled voice was in his right ear. “Hey, tiger, ease up. Get shot anywhere?”

“No... no, I’m good, this time.” He was damp and dirty and ached all over, and the back portion of his head felt like it had been split open, but other than that, he was mostly in one piece. “Seriously, though, I might throw up on your suit.”

“ _Bro..._ ”

The sound bounced about in Clint’s head for a good three or four seconds before he realized it wasn’t an echo, it was a fresh noise that had only recently been emitted into the alleyway. Behind Wade, one of the Tracksuit Draculas was propped against the mossy brick wall of the alleyway (in a spot Wade and Clint had both actually urinated several times over the months, come to think of it), large bloody gashes in his shoulder and leg not keeping his other arm from holding up the small pistol, his shaky hand fighting to remain level with the blond American’s head.

“ _Bro... bro, you FINISH now, bro... you piss off... wrong people, bro..._ ”

It was moments like this that Wade was grateful for two things, despite the horrible messed-up shit that had happened to him in his life: his increased reflexes, and his ability to heal his own wounds. Thankfully, Clint was too drunk to struggle against him, and went down easily as he took ahold of his opposing shoulder and wrist in both hands and shoved the archer to the ground behind him. In the same fluid motion, he spun around and darted forward, running at the downed thug in a shallow zig-zagging motion, ignoring the several bullets that went _into_ or _through_ him as he did so.

Two-and-a-half seconds later, the Tracksuit was sucking in his last breath, and Deadpool had dropped to his knees on the asphalt, inhaling a wickedly deep breath in a loud hiss between his teeth before letting the entire payload out in one terrific scream of agony.

“ _HOLY BALL-FUCKING ASS-PISSING SUGARTIT-TOSSING PILFERRED_ ** _BUGGER NUTS_** _!!!”_

Wade was in a heap on the ground, both of his hands wedged firmly between his thighs across his groin as he writhed and squirmed around in what appeared to be absolute agony. Clint stumbled closer, still dizzy and tasting vomit at the back of his throat from where the merc had thrown him off-balance with no warning.

“Fuck, man... you all right!?”

“Fucking chess-playing butthole gnomes piece of shit cake, no, Clint, I am NOT ALL RIGHT!” shrieked Wade, whimpering as he continued to apply pressure to himself and flopped helplessly onto his back on the ground. “THAT CUM-SNORTING WANKPUFFIN _SHOT ME IN THE FUCKING DICK!!!_ ”

Clint blinked blearily, not really sure what to say to that. “Whoaaaaa,” he settled on eventually, his heart rate slowly coming down from near-critical speeds as the adrenaline began to dissolve from inside his system. “That’s... that’s rough, dude.”

“Arrrrgggghhhh, no fucking SHIT it’s rough!” he groaned, rubbing his face into the cement as if that would somehow help the pain between his legs to go away. Clint anxiously kicked a pebble across the alleyway, not entirely sure what to do in this situation given the injuries he had known Deadpool to walk away from a fight with, and too drunk to be able to take it _too_ seriously.

“Is it, um. Do I need to... is there somethin’, like...”

“No... ngh, no, I just... nnnnnggggh, need to wait it out...”

It was... bizarre, being friends with superheroes. Not the kind of superhero Clint was, the whole _a regular guy who thought he was some kind of big shot but really had no place in the big leagues_ sort’a wreck. But the ones with weird powers and shit. He’d drunk and fought and drunk some more alongside Wade more times than he could count now, and some of the injuries he’d watched knit together before his eyes purely because he thought it was fucking _cool_ and Wade was more than happy to let him be in awe of it... well, they even topped some of the things Cap’ and Thor had shrugged off. Sitting in a dark downtown alleyway that smelled like garbage and piss while you waited for your buddy to heal his punctured nuts might _sound_ crazy... but for Deadpool and Hawkeye, well, it was just another hilarious story to tell at a later date that Kate and Darcy would roll their eyes over and declare just _couldn’t be true_.

Clint scraped his sneakers together clumsily beneath him and settled himself down, sitting cross-legged right next to Wade so that he could ease the other man’s head onto one of his thighs. The flesh and tissue had to fuse back together before the other man would be able to comfortably walk, or at the very least the pain would have to go down enough that he felt like he could move again. The _least_ Clint could do was make him comfortable for the few minutes they had.

The entire street had cleared out the instant the gunfire had rung out, any onlookers only watching through windows or from a great enough distance that _he_ at least wouldn’t be recognized, even if they caught the markings on Deadpool’s mask. In the distance, the sound of police sirens whipped up into a frenzy from somewhere across town. Clint was reminded that, as much as he pitied his friend’s current situation, he _really_ didn’t want to be arrested twice in the _same_ week.

“Okay, man, I hate to have to do this, but we gotta get up and get outta here.” Clint nudged his friend’s cheek slightly with his thigh, starting to work his way to his feet. Wade whined and groaned, pulling one hand back from his special place and checking the blood on his hand.

“God-fucking- _damn_ it, and I wore my _favourite_ fucking penis today, too.” He unfolded himself carefully and rolled onto both knees, staggering to his feet with Clint’s help. “C’mon, this way. And if I run like a fucking spazzed-out penguin on acid, _don’t_ _point it out,_ okay? I’m really worried about my dick right now and until I make sure everything still works down there I’m basically gonna be an overly-sensitive Yamblr fairy!”

Hawkeye was drunk, and so of course he giggled insanely at the mental image of a penguin waddling around frantically as it tripped balls all over the place, but he kept his word and didn’t mention the unfortunate injury again as Wade led him down the alleyway, over several crosswire fences, through an old industrial site, down another alleyway, out onto the main street, and down into the subway. No, Clint Barton kept a straight face the entire time, his head down and his mouth set firmly in a grim, serious line.

Because as much as they would both probably be laughing about this within the next few hours,  at the end of the day, friends didn’t laugh at friends who’d been shot in the dick. No matter how _futzing hilarious_ the idea of it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumble with me? :3  
> [~acidarrowguy](http://acidarrowguy.tumblr.com)
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Leftennant](http://leftylain.tumblr.com) and [Miin](http://awwheartno.tumblr.com).


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